The Help
by xstashhjonasx
Summary: It was supposed to be the wedding of the century; until her stupid uncle, Ron, walked out of it. Now, Lily Potter is on a mission to bring the smile back to Hermione's face. All she needs is a bit of help, and his name is Draco Malfoy.
1. Part 1

**Disclaimer: **I do not own "Harry Potter". All credits go to the fabulous J.K. Rowling.

**Author's Note:** Like I said, first chapters are always the hardest to write and share. Please review!

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><p><strong>Part 1<strong>

**Hermione Granger** used to think that her life would end with love—lots of love. She used to think that, no matter what problem tried to split her pathway through life, she and Ron would find their way back to each other. And, just maybe, the two of them would be able to still be just as madly in love as before. She used to think that she and Ron were invincible; that nothing in the world could stop them. She used to think that, having defeated the Dark Lord, nothing could come between them.

Hermione Granger believed that her selfishness, her narrow-minded arrogance, was the reason why Ron Weasley decided to leave her standing in humiliation at the alter on their wedding day.

Their lives had always been one with multiple bumps in the road, whether together or separated. They had never had a consistency in their relationship, especially not the way Harry and Ginny had. Where Harry had patience with Ginny's sudden outbursts and random accusations, Ron would get up and leave a sobbing Hermione. He would be gone for days and, no, Hermione never questioned where he was … or _who_ he was with.

But, at twenty-eight years old, still believing in Muggle fairytales, she hardly hesitated before he slipped on the engagement ring. She had envisioned their wedding day; a day for a king and queen. And, just like Harry and Ginny's unforgettable day, _Witch Weekly _proclaimed this the "wedding of the century".

The wedding had been planned with expertise precision; every little detail possible was immediately mastered to majestic perfection to make Hermione and Ron feel like the Muggle "Cinderella and Prince Charming". In total, they spent around 30,000 Galleons—money neither Hermione nor Ron had. Though their pride was squashed, several family members agreed to meet the accommodations. And of course, Hermione was riveting with glory.

Obviously, Hermione was a bit one-dimensional during the wedding preparations. It was about what she wanted, what she wanted to eat, wanted to wear, wanted to invite … Ron hardly had a say except for the best man (without a doubt, Harry) of his choice. The entire time, he mumbled "Sure" and "Whatever helps you sleep at night". Hermione ignored him; "cold feet" is what she assumed Ron had.

It wasn't that Ron never loved her. At one point, he was so irrevocably in love with her that the passion between them felt like burning fires. At one point, she was the light to his eyes; she was his all, his only … his heart. And Hermione had willingly given him everything she could ever give a man: her love, her innocence, and her life. She was willing to give him her life.

And so, they were engaged for about a year. The wedding details were plucked to redefined perfection, a true fantasy for all naïve women, and after their twenty-ninth birthdays, one warm April morning, Ron decided not to show up to his wedding.

Hermione was already nervous, waking up with cold sweats and hyperventilating as Fleur trilled about all 1,043 guests that would be attending the ceremony and reception. She had hardly heard the French woman and, when Ginny soothed her while tying the corset top of her tulle skirt and crystallized bodice, she shot Fleur a look. But then, Ginny said the smartest thing:

"This isn't about the fucking guests. This is about you and Ron. No one else but the two of you."

But it didn't end up going as planned, per se.

For starters, the cake was a layer short. Instead of the fourteen-tiered chocolate mousse cake, there were thirteen layers. Hermione hated odd numbers; she liked well-rounded, even digits. And thirteen was an unlucky number. Go fucking figure.

Next, James—Harry and Ginny's eldest son and ring bearer—had fallen ill. Meaning, he was vomiting three hours straight while Teddy and Victoire, instead of caring to the sickly boy, snogged in the corridors.

It, however, did not rain. But the burdens weighing on Harry's shoulders—as well as the other Aurors who had been welcomed to the bridal party (Blaise Zabini, Dean Thomas, and, to Hermione's surprise, Cormac McLaggen)—could have well passed as the worst storm of the century. And _Witch Weekly_: you can print that!

With her father's arm looped around hers, she hardly felt the tense friction building between the 1,043 guests. Hermione had taken five steps down the gold carpet in the enlarged backyard of the Burrow before she realized someone was missing.

Ron.

She dropped her dad's arm when Harry nervously fixed his glasses. She had hardly realized that everyone was looking anxiously at her paling expression. It only took Hermione a few seconds to know she had misinterpreted everything Ron wanted from her; and, when she read his ridiculous farewell note, wondered if she led him onto this.

_He was in love with Astoria Greengrass. Not her._

_ He had left her for Astoria; they were currently residing in Wizarding Australia._

_ He had apologized for not loving Hermione anymore. He never intended to hurt her._

But everyone, including the Weasleys, knew his intentions were exactly where he left them to be. And although 1,043 had come to see the "wedding of the century", they watched sympathetically as Hermione sobbed until her lungs shriveled, until her eyes grew sore, until she finally vomited from the sickness of his pathetic infidelity with the sexiest witch of the United Kingdom.

No one knew what to say, and so no one spoke. The guests had remained silent and respectful to Hermione's downfall. It wasn't until midnight, when the innermost family remained for a quaint and depressed midnight snack at the Burrow when the oddest of guests had approached her with a shot of firewhiskey.

The shot was for him; Hermione was in no state for alcohol. With a runny nose and a splotchy face, she asked no questions. He was, forcefully speaking, her colleague at the Auror Office. A foe turned "friend". So Draco Malfoy downed the shot and shrugged indifferently, a malicious sneer on his face.

"Life sucks, Granger. Then you die." He walked away, leaving Hermione to just fall into another round of tears while mentally thinking to herself, _You're damn fucking right._

**oOo**

**For six **months, Lily Potter watched Hermione Granger mourn the loss of her uncle, Ron. It was as if he was dead, but he was perfectly healthy and perfectly in love … with the wrong woman, of course.

Lily Potter was seven years old and she had no clue as to why blokes fell into and out of love. What was the point? They could either end up madly in love or they could end up hurt, broken … lost. Just like Hermione.

She was only seven, but she saw it all. She saw Hermione move out of Uncle Ron's apartment and into her house, a door down from her all-pink bedroom. She saw her quit her job as an Auror, a shock to the entire Wizarding community, and she saw Hermione fall vulnerably apart through the seams in the strangest moments.

Like two weeks ago, for example. Lily was fluffing pillow, without magic, and chewed her lip from hiding a smirk at Hermione. Her aunt had smiled faintly, muttering about how oddly similar Lily was to Ron. The next thing she knew, Hermione was sobbing on the floor.

It happened like this multiple times; James and Albus were never around to witness it, but Mum and Dad knew. Her mum had too much patience with this healing process; and Lily was bloody positive that her father just zoned it all out. But Lily watched and Lily listened to the conversations. It wasn't hard to miss.

It may be a selfish thing to say, but Lily just wanted to stop hearing Hermione cry at night.

When would the madness end?

**oOo**

**Love was **a complex thing, Lily knew. There were multiple layers, circles in which the deeper you fell the harder in love you were. Lily knew this much and that was it. She didn't know why Mum sighed dreamily while explaining why she loved watching Harry smile. Apparently, her father's eyes lit up and Mum swooned at the thought.

Anyway, it wasn't about Mum and Dad. It wasn't about Lily either. It was about the complexity of the latest wedding her mother had to plan: Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson's royal wedding.

She knew Blaise through the Auror Office; she had scrunched her nose with distaste to hear him be called a Slytherin, but he was genuinely a nice man who gave her sugar quills if she didn't repeat the cuss words from the office to her mother.

And Pansy was, shockingly so, a close friend to her mother. The two worked as colleagues in different departments at the same building; Ginny as a wedding planner and Pansy as a matchmaker. From what she heard from outside Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, Pansy was making her the flower girl.

Lily had tagged along with her mother and a begrudgingly bedridden Hermione, who had lost so much weight that the collagen in her cheeks sagged, to a private pub in Diagon Alley to meet with the engaged purebloods. Ginny had instructed Lily to "stay close to your auntie and out of my work for an hour".

The pub was near empty, much to Lily's dislike. She liked a loud scene; probably because she grew up with Uncle George and his eccentricity rubbed down a generation. She took a seat by Hermione, who whipped out a book from her bead bag that held everything, and swung her lungs.

After a few minutes, Pansy and Blaise emerged … with an oddly familiar blonde git her father had joked to once be a ferret during the Auror Office Christmas party. His name was Draco Malfoy and, bloody hell, was he _beautiful_.

He had not caught sight of Lily or Hermione; but Blaise greeted her mum with, "We thought we'd do much of the planning with our best mate, and the best man, Draco."

Lily felt Hermione's body tense beside her. Amusedly, she grinned at the nervous older witch. Lately, she looked just as old as Grandma Molly. She snorted silently at the comparison before she came to realizing something:

Maybe that's what Hermione needed: a best mate. Not Harry, not Ginny … No, someone who she could confide in; someone who could turn the brightest witch of the century out of the darkness surrounding her life. She needed someone who needed her just as badly and, recognizing the emptiness of Draco Malfoy's gray eyes, she came to one conclusion.

She needed Draco's assistance, his _"partnership"_, to pull Hermione Granger from the dust.

Lily Potter was on a mission. And _"Operation: Ask Malfoy For Help"_ was underway!


	2. Part 2

**Author's Note: **Please review!

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><p><strong>Part 2<strong>

**Blaise was **too kind to his fiancé, and Draco only realized this just ten minutes into the meeting with the wedding planner, Ginny Potter. Whatever fad Pansy and Ginny goggled over in the catalogues, whatever Pansy expressed great passion over, Blaise smiled dotingly and said in a deep, French-African twang, "Whatever you want, my love."

Draco had just about enough with the love and the cooties (or nargles, as Loony Lovegood would probably say) that suffocated the small amount of oxygen in the pub. He had ordered a scotch on the rocks—_anything_ to relieve himself from the love potion Blaise might be under. He knew, of course, that Blaise loved Pansy; that he always had. But Draco had never seen him this way; with a coy, playful grin and an agreeable alliance, never countering his fiancé.

_He wants this to be perfect, for Pansy._

_ He wanted her to remember this; the only wedding she should have._

_ He just wants her happy._

And what it came down to, Draco realized after swallowing the bitter taste of the cold scotch, was that Blaise Zabini and Ron Weasley, despite the once-similar career paths, were very different men. In fact, Draco reckoned they were on opposite spectrums.

Where the ginger weasel was selfish and careless and heartless, Blaise was kind and affectionate and full of love for everyone.

Where the ginger weasel was still ignorant and snappish at anyone from the Slytherin House, or anyone who had once signed allegiance to the Dark Lord (no matter if they had changed directions, like he and Blaise), Blaise could care less for blood statuses and school houses.

Where the ginger weasel had given up on a worthy, beautiful woman, Blaise knew never to make that mistake; because, unlike the ginger weasel, Blaise knew how precious the shelf-life of love was.

The only reason Draco had gone to the _"wedding of the century" _was because he, Ron, and Hermione had once been colleagues. Yes, surprising, isn't it? Draco had worked alongside Hermione countless of times; together, they had made an incredible team. And despite the bigotry and the arrogance that had made Draco seem like an insufferable, spoiled prat, Hermione had handed him the invitation personally at the Auror Office, a gentle smile on her face. He remembered how the sun had shone right into the corners of her eyes, creating a golden hue right in the center of her large, ecru marbles.

_"It would mean so much if you came, Draco."_

Yes, they were on first-name bases. No, unlike Pansy and Ginny, they did _not_ go to Muggle restaurants after work hours; they did not "hang out"; they did not talk outside of the Ministry of Magic, especially if the matters discussed had nothing to do pertaining _work_. But Draco, like Harry and Ginny's wedding, had put on his best Muggle suit—a gray Armani straight suit with a baby blue skinny tie that matched well with his eyes—and went to Hermione and Ron's wedding.

The wedding that Ron decided not to attend.

As Aurors, Draco and Hermione watched countless of innocent people drop dead before either one of them could round up the Dark wizard or witch. Each time, he saw Hermione stifle her cries; he never comforted her. He didn't need to; it was work, and Hermione Granger of all people knew what she was getting into.

But the rainfalls of tears she cried during the reception hours of the _should-have-been _wedding were nothing compared to those awkward moments heading back to the Auror Office. She cried until her lungs shriveled, until her chest ached, until her stomach regurgitated.

He always knew Ron was, for lack of a better word, a _dick_. He was a selfish bastard, a cowardly tool, who liked the attention that the _Daily Prophet _and _Witch Weekly _gave him. He liked the women who ogled at him with googly eyes. He liked the glitz and glamour that came with it; he kept Hermione at the side, like a doting, sacrificial lamb that she was, and decided to break his vows (before he even committed to them!) in the most revealing, most dramatic, and most stressful way possible: Do it at the scene of the wedding, without being present, but with all the cameras, media, and guests present.

_What a fucking asshole._

It didn't help that, three weeks after the wedding, Hermione decided to quit her job as an Auror. The other Aurors (Draco, Harry, Blaise, Cormac McLaggen, Dean Thomas, Susan Bones, Ernie Macmillian, Adrian Pucey, and Alicia Spinnet) had been completely flabbergasted. Sure, losing Ron Weasley was a tragedy but … Hermione was the _best_ in the field. It wasn't just to say that the consideration of being a Dark wizard catcher hadn't been shocking enough to the Wizarding community, considering how she constantly liked the preach about house-elf rights and some shit called _spew _("It's not _spew_," Alicia had teased two years ago at the Halloween party the Auror Office traditionally threw at her house, "it's the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare! Get it right, boys!"), but it was a career path that made her closer to Ron.

Now that he was gone, what was the point of keeping the job?

The Auror Office suffered a great loss the day she packed her belongings at her cubicle, and Draco had confronted her about it. Her eyes were swollen—was she _still_ fucking crying over a man who was screwing the woman _he_, Draco, had once been obsessed with?—and the collagen in her cheekbones was slowly dissolving. With an inaudible, croaky voice, she had explained:

_"This job made me close to him. Every time I come into this Godforsaken place, it reminds me of him. Besides, when I have done anything for myself? It's time for that, isn't it?"_

Since the day Hermione had left the Office, Draco hadn't heard from her. Of course, each time he went to dinner at the Potters, she was there … moping in the background, helping Lily mount the toy broomstick while remaining expressionless. She rarely spoke during dinner—she hardly _ate_ during dinner.

As if it were all Draco's fault, Ginny would sigh and shake her head pitifully while muttering underneath her breath, _"Look at her … she's a _wreck_. The others at the Office have tried owling her, you know, to get her to go out, but … she saw Ron and Astoria all over _Witch Weekly _last week and, well … the look on her face just explains it."_

_Of course_ Draco felt bad for Hermione. But what was he going to _do_? She was still obviously in love with Ron, she was obviously still two steps in the past, not wanting to move on, still holding onto the last precious, sentimental memories shared between the ginger weasel and the brightest witch of their generation.

The point was, Draco couldn't take Hermione's hand and lead her into the present. He couldn't babysit her; he couldn't help her into forgetting Ronald Weasley (especially if she was constantly surrounded by the redheaded offspring nephews, nieces, brothers, sister, and sisters-in-law).

There wasn't much he could do.

That was, until, he saw a bright redheaded girl with freckles splotched across her nose and cheeks, with bright hazel eyes, taking the booth next to him. She looked aggravated, impatient, and simply and utterly tired hearing Ginny rave about the latest chinaware they could use for Pansy and Blaise's ultimate Slytherin-themed wedding.

In other words, Lily Potter was _pissed off_.

Draco had to admit, Potter's offspring were adorable, witty, sarcastic, eccentric balls of energy. James was the stand-up comedian, always the prankster; Albus was calmer, serious and sensitive, but he liked his fair shares of comedy as well; and Lily was just like her uncle George—wild and never in place. Always moving. They were fun kids to be around; Draco liked their company.

He looked over at the half-eaten plate of fish and chips in front of her, along with the pumpkin juice. "What's wrong, Lily-Pad?"

Draco gave Lily the nickname _Lily-Pad _two weeks after she was born. He had brought a gift for the parents (elf-made wine, despite Hermione's protest when he suggested this in the Office—she went on a rant about _spew_; Draco tried not to laugh) and a complete outfit for the small infant. When he first saw Lily Potter in her crib, sound asleep, she reminded him of a frog because she slept with her little buttocks in the air, her hands close to her chest, her feet apart. So Lily-Pad was her nickname and since then, it stuck.

"I'm sick of seeing Auntie 'Mione _mope_," Lily scoffed.

Draco hadn't realized that Hermione Granger was even _there_, in the pub, until Lily pointed over her shoulder with her small thumb at the corner of the restaurant. Of course—a book was under her nose.

Merlin, she looked so _old_. She looked so _tired_. She certainly lost a lot of weight around her hips and collarbone; Draco noticed the bones protruding a bit subtly through her pale skin. She looked sickly thin, like a patient at St. Mungo's who was underfed.

"She's still living with the Potters, huh?"

Lily nodded, popping a chip into her mouth before gesturing to Draco to join her. "Somehow, everyday, _something _will remind her of my stupid uncle Ronald, and that'll take enough energy out of her to cry. Mum has too much patience with her; it's been six months, for Merlin's sake!"

So Lily was definitely the most insightful of the three Potters; she, too, realized that Hermione was not getting better. In fact, she was worsening. Six months was a long time; it was also enough time to reenergize herself into a new and refreshed and _happier _witch.

After all, happiness was the best revenge.

"You may be young, Lily-Pad"—Draco ignored the glare burning into his pale skin from the young Potter—"but I'll tell you now, so the message will sink in … love hurts. And love sucks. And love will penetrate all your bodily energy. And love will _ruin _you. Trust me … been there, done that." He scoffed, reaching for a fried piece of fish fillet.

"At least _some_one understands," Lily sighed, plopping her gentle face into her hands. Then, her face brightened, and her eyes lit up as if fireworks were shooting into her irises. She flashed a white smile, a sly smile if Draco Malfoy knew one at all, and lowered her voice so that the nearing engaged couple and her mother wouldn't hear. "Maybe you can help me, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco knew Harry and Ginny's children were mischievous. Hell, _any _offspring to any of the Weasley clang knew how to be sly and devious and extremely witty in the situation. So, yes, _Witch Weekly_: you can print that Draco knew what Lily Potter was insinuating. He knew exactly what her scheme was before she even opened her lips. He knew that, somehow or another, someone was going to get hurt in the process.

And yet, he wiggled his eyebrows with interest while fighting the urge to glance up at Hermione, who had gone up and left the pub without a word. Lily extended her tiny hand for the alliance.

With a raised brow and a smirk that could give George Weasley a run for his Galleons, Lily Potter spoke with defiance: "I want you, Draco Malfoy, to help me in getting Auntie 'Mione out of this wreck." She left him with a cliffhanger. _Damn, she was good._

Draco mirrored her smirk.

"I'm listening, Lily-Pad."

**oOo**

**Hermione didn't **like the idea of being at the Auror Office Halloween Party at Alicia Spinnet's beautifully crafted Victorian. The only reason why she agreed to go was because this year, it wasn't a themed party; it was, in fact, an engagement party for Alicia and Colin Santini, a wizard who worked at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Hermione knew that, for the sake of the Ministry, both Alicia and Colin kept their relationship quiet.

_ Just like her and Ron had._

She would have been perfectly happy, babysitting Lily. However, Ginny had other plans; she asked her mother to babysit her seven-year-old so that she and Harry could enjoy the night … and so Hermione could tag along as well.

Of course, Hermione put up a stubborn prissy fit. But Harry was the one who put his foot down, much to her surprise. _Ginny put him up to this._ All he needed to say was _"Look at you, Hermione! You're not the same."_

And Hermione felt like a lonely bitch, eating and sleeping and functioning on the wealth of her best friends. She knew she had lost a lot of weight, had ruined her sleeping schedule, and had lost her entire social life in the last six months. The only benefit was that the _Daily Prophet _and _Witch Weekly _kept out of her bushy hair as she was incognito.

But no more.

Sure, she could live and sleep and eat at the Potters'. But she couldn't mope anymore. She couldn't _sulk_! She had to find time to find the old Hermione, the young and exhilarating and spunky Hermione; the one people were surprised to see after being dubbed the brightest witch of their day. She wanted to still be spunky and eccentric and, more importantly, _happy_.

That's all Hermione wanted: happiness. She thought she would achieve that once she was Hermione _Weasley_, but all she got was a slap in the face. Or better yet, a wakeup call.

Maybe Hermione didn't need love. Maybe she needed a lover, a friend with benefits, someone who could keep Hermione feeling alive and expressive and full of passion and amour; without the strings connected. Maybe, just maybe, she needed a friend, a companion—someone besides Ginny and Harry. Someone who was once a stranger, maybe once an enemy, maybe once on the Dark side, but someone who needed her just as much as she needed him.

So, in honor of Alicia and Colin's engagement, she slipped on her best cocktail dress—a strapless silk wrap mini, the color of cranberries—and a pair of gold, glittering pumps. She colored her lips a blood red and accentuated her cheeks with a bit of blush so that she didn't look as surly or as sulky as she had earlier in the day.

She felt beautiful.

But what she _needed_ was someone who believed she was.

And when Hermione arrived at Alicia Spinnet's Victorian, she was surprised to see a once egotistical man make rounds toward her and smile exceptionally wide. His smile was genuine; there was no pity in his eyes. And Hermione didn't need pity.

Cormac McLaggen gave Hermione a small hug. He flicked his wand so that Hermione was given a small Grecian _pizzetta_ and a fluke of peach champagne. In six months, his hair had grown and his muscles had tightened; he always had a nice built, Cormac. With another gentle grin, he added over the music, "The Auror Office isn't the same, just so you know."

It was her turn to smile, although it took awhile for her muscles to really _feel _the smile. Thinking of it now … when _was_ the last time she smiled? She didn't remember glowing at her infamous wedding—

_No, Hermione._

_ Stop the bullshit._

_ Cut the crap._

_ Think of how fucking tasty McLaggen looks in a Muggle straight suit, with the top buttons left open._

_ You _tease_._

From the corner of her eye, she noticed Ginny giving her an encouraging thumbs up to continue talking to Cormac. And Hermione didn't argue; she wanted to keep talking to him, although in Hogwarts he had been an egotistical bigot that gave Draco Malfoy, at the time, a run for his Galleons. But she remembered the first time he appeared at the Auror Office, speaking to Harry (the Head of the Office) about scheduling a training session. Of course she had been stunned, since he had once wanted a career in Quidditch, but he proved everyone in the Ministry wrong; he was completely competent of the job. The fact that his attitude and arrogance had leveled off was a plus, too.

So when McLaggen asked if she wanted to dance, Hermione said yes—just because she wanted to keep close to a man who looked extremely able of holding her in his arms.

When he hesitantly slipped his hand on the softness of her waist, she was also cautious. She didn't want to move _too _fast, but … who the hell was going to care?

Rita Skeeter was nowhere to be found. (Hermione had checked McLaggen's shoulders—no beetle.)

And for _that_, Hermione Granger rewarded Gryffindor fifty points—and the left side to Cormac McLaggen's bed.

**oOo**

_**His hands **__roamed every inch of her body, a longing and burning sensation that she watched through the curtains of her eyelashes. Every now and then, a shaky breath would escape the small opening of her vibrating lips; his hands would touch a sensitive spot, his lips would flake over the tenderness of her neck, his tongue would make her skin shiver._

_ He was confident, but he was an utter tease from the moment he had slipped her cranberry dress off. He touched and groped and kissed and toyed with every contour, every crevice, of her chilling body. No lover had ever held her in such strong arms, nor had any lover kissed her eyelids before assuring her how beautiful she truly was._

_ The climax was simultaneously, his bedroom tainted with slow passion and tender care. The moment he rolled off her body, she lifted the duvet over her stomach, her lungs on fire and her legs sore. When she turned over to admire the sweaty man beside her, his lips curled into a playful smile._

_ "I could … go for another round."_

_ "Or two?"_

_ "Definitely."_

**oOo**

**Lily Potter **knew Hermione looked different the moment she walked into her house with the same dress from Alicia Spinnet's engagement party. She reeked badly of firewhiskey, but the effects had worn off. She had arrived back after lunchtime, when Lily's father was still at work and her mum had finished Flooing Pansy for extra questions.

Hermione had run off quickly to shower, and her mother looked excited about this. She ran off upstairs with her friend, giggling like Hogwarts schoolgirls, and before Lily knew it, her mother let out a delighted squeal and Hermione was shushing her.

Something had to have happened at the party, and this made Lily both excited and nervous. Before she jumped to conclusions, she grabbed a quill and parchment, addressing it to _'Dragon'_.

She wanted every spitting detail, until Draco Malfoy's last despair was using the ground out bits of his last quill.

**oOo**

**Lily and **Draco had made an alliance, an off-the-documents contract, a fresh friendship. She had asked him at the pub weeks earlier to give a helping hand and reach out to her Auntie 'Mione. At first, he was hesitant. But after Lily gestured to her sulking aunt, he was merely convinced.

The task was simple. All Lily asked was Draco to keep a close watch on Hermione Granger and to owl her during the work hours (so her parents wouldn't intersect the owls, of course!) if there was anything worth mentioning. He was supposed to slowly, gradually, befriend Hermione. He was supposed to let happiness and love back into her heart.

From the den, Lily could hear her mum say, "This is good, too good even! Mum is hosting an early Christmas dinner for those at the Auror Office, families and all, and he agreed to show! This will test your compatibility. If he can stand the Burrow, he's a keeper." Noticing the attentive and tense, furtive look on Hermione's grief-stricken face, Ginny made sure to add "He wasn't invited."

So happiness bloomed all afternoon in the Potter house, for reasons Lily didn't know [yet]. Hermione had spoken of some thing called _spew_ ("It isn't _spew_, Lily. Don't be ignorant like your father! It's Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare!), she had helped prepare dinner, and she even knitted with Lily in the Muggle fashion—without the use of a wand, just to keep Lily happy.

Well, not to be cocky … but Lily Potter believed she deserved a standing ovation.

**oOo**

**Draco was **keeping true to his promise to Blaise and Pansy. In every wedding preparation meeting with the planner, Ginny Potter, Draco had canceled or rearranged his plans and appointments and meetings to tagalong to watch Pansy squeal with Ginny over green and silver china, or silk cloth napkins, or lobster ravioli with truffles in a corn sauce. Sure, it was boring and insignificant to Draco's everyday life, but he was there to keep Blaise sane. In fact, since the first meeting, Blaise had lost a bit of his patience. Even though he was still allowing Pansy freewill with the wedding plans, he was jumpier with every meeting. All he wanted was for the wedding to come and go, so that he can name Pansy his bride and they can finally travel to Fiji and New Zealand for the honeymoon.

Draco was _also _keeping true to his word with Lily Potter's devious plan to make Hermione Granger happy. He must say he should have considered a job in Pansy's matchmaking field: at Alicia Spinnet's engagement party, it was _he_ who bribed Cormac McLaggen in plucking the courage to speak to the single witch.

_"I tried once, mate, she didn't like the package," _McLaggen explained.

_ "Yeah, well … you were a fucking prick back then, man. But you're a changed man," _Draco added to McLaggen's pointed face, _"and I'm sure she needs a reason to smile. So be that reason to give the Weasel a look at what he's missing out on."_

At the near end of the party, just before Alicia and Colin Santini thanked the guests, Draco watched McLaggen lead Hermione Granger to the Apparition point in the backyard's meadow.

Since October, Draco was sure McLaggen and Granger were shagging each other as often as they could. No, Draco did not participate in listening to the shagging festivity talks at the Auror Office. No, he did not tell Lily Potter that her aunt was fucking her ex-colleague. He had avoided telling Lily this at all costs, because … well … she was seven years old, Merlin, and he figured that was a difficult discussion, the practice of friends with benefits.

But the middle of December was drawing near, and the outside sceneries were making this abundantly clear: The grass had shriveled and yellowed; the air felt bitter and frigid; snow fell like graceful, dancing ballerinas every night or so; and holiday decorations were being strewn across every inch of the manor on his mother's account. Since his father's death, Narcissa wanted the Malfoy Manor to remain happy and wholly. Christmas was the holiday to make it such, and Draco gave his mother free reign to do so.

He had been invited to the Burrow for an early Christmas dinner, a tradition Molly Weasley threw for the Auror Office in her tight-knit, makeshift living room. He went every year, just because he enjoyed the presence of all the redheaded offspring and the Potters creating mayhem every chance they got. This year, it was an early Christmas dinner for _everyone_, not just the Auror Office. For his sanity, he asked Potter earlier that morning for the entire list of folk going. He needed _every_ name.

_"Thirty-two _fucking _people in one living room?" _Draco had exclaimed at his cubicle that morning before the dinner, getting the attention of several bimbo-like interns. _"Who … who could your mother-in-law have possibly invited?"_

_ "Molly, Arthur, Bill, Fleur, Victoire, Charlie, his girlfriend Holly Higgins, Percy, Penelope, George, Angelina, me, Ginny and our kids, Teddy, you, your mother, Blaise and Pansy, Hermione is bringing Cormac, Dean, Susan, Ernie, Adrian and a guest named Lucille Duero, and Alicia and Colin. Oh … and, don't tell Ginny I told you but … Ron and Astoria will be there."_

It was bad enough Draco had to endeavor absorbing thirty-two names to remember by that evening, but hearing Ron and Astoria in the same sentence did not sit right in his stomach. No, it was not because he didn't want to hear Astoria fucking Greengrass would be present, but because he knew that Hermione was enjoying shagging McLaggen. Seeing the weasel ginger would not make her sex life any better. In fact, it would probably mean she would start comparing Weasley and McLaggen.

But he liked a little drama in his life, so he purchased four bottles of expensive elf-made red wine for the long courses that Molly would prepare, as well as a treacle tart he asked his elf to make.

Then Draco asked the young intern—had she even reached N.E.W.T levels?—to cancel his meeting with the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

He had to accompany Pansy and Blaise as they perused through champagne crystallized flukes.

**oOo**

**Hermione never **knew shagging could be so much fun. Whether it took place on the mattress, on the couch, in the kitchen, in the shower, or in tight corners of abandoned closets at the Ministry of Magic, the shagging Hermione experienced with Cormac was exhilarating, refreshing, sultry and seductive. The climax was the most anticipated moments, but the aftermath of it all was what she enjoyed the most. It was the little things that mattered; the way his arm hooked over her waist, or how he flicked his wand in the direction of his kitchen to conjure mugs of coffee, or how toyed with her hand before falling asleep on her chest.

She _liked _this. She _enjoyed _Apparating back to Ginny and Harry's home to tell Ginny how amazing it was, even after the umpteenth time. Her best friend hardly complained, because she too thought Cormac was a nice guy. Several times she tried getting Hermione to invite him for dinner, but she declined each offer.

She and Cormac weren't exclusive. In fact, they left their 'relationship' in the confinements of his shabby apartment, ordering in instead of going out on real dates. Sometimes his apartment became too claustrophobic for her, since it was littered with documents and files and paperwork and the likes. But the moment she arrived, he would Vanish all the crap and throw off her clothes. She liked how he wasn't blunt, how he didn't tease her anymore. He went straight to whatever room was closest.

That morning, it was on the couch.

When she sat up to grab the nearest shirt—his Gryffindor sweater—he spoke with a rusty, post-sex voice: "I hear we're invited to the Burrow tonight. I take it we're going together?"

Hermione hadn't completely thought of that before, how she would introduce Cormac to the Weasley clan considering there wasn't a real label to their interactions with each other. But Cormac was an Auror, a regular guest of Molly and Arthur's for this Christmas dinner. In the end, she nodded her head and reached for the nearest _Daily Prophet _copy on the unorganized coffee table. Her panties and her lacy bra were strewn across it, as well as Cormac's useless tie.

The cover bore a familiar redhead and a ridiculously skinny brunette with plump lips and breasts that fell disproportioned compared to her thin frame. They were smiling brightly into the cameras, holding close to one another. Hermione's lips trembled with fear as her brown eyes fell to the cover title, thick block letters telling her the words she didn't want to read.

_No, not yet._

_ Go back to Australia._

_ I was _just _getting my life back on track, dammit! _

_**"RON WEASLEY & ASTORIA GREENGRASS—BACK IN ENGLAND FOR THE HOLIDAYS!"**_


End file.
